Reg Finds a Robot
Stories
Bogshire awoke to a robin-egg blue sky, gloriously unseasonal sunshine, and the ear-splitting whine of a top-tier hair dryer operating at maximum wattage. Reginald Crumplethwaite was currently employing said appliance to evaporate a small, lukewarm sea of Builder’s Extra Strong from his workbench, having inadvertently executed a classic 'elbow-to-mug' manoeuvre during a moment of profound scientific contemplation.
Reg resided at number four Bog Lane, a stone’s throw from the coast, if one possessed the arm of a county cricketer, in a semi-detached cottage boasting a wooden outbuilding in the rear garden. Noreen, his long-suffering spouse of forty-two years, called it ‘the shed’. Passers-by, delivery drivers, and stray cats called it ‘the shed’. Reg, however, insisted upon designating it The Bogshire Centre for Advanced Technological Development and Design.
Reg was, by trade and temperament, an Inventor of Things That Never Quite Worked. Not that such trivialities deterred him; functioning is merely an overrated byproduct of engineering. Reg approached the mysteries of the universe with the unshakeable confidence of a man who firmly understood how physical reality operated, even if physical reality continually refused to co-operate with his wiring diagrams.
On this particular Thursday—a day universally recognised in pub-philosophical circles as being inherently dubious—Reg had arisen at cock-crow to refine his magnum opus: The Automated Ceramic Vessel Locator. The underlying metaphysics were disarmingly simple. A miniaturised vacuum mechanism (salvaged from a hand-held keyboard cleaner) sucked ambient air into an empty metal tin of Quality Street. Inside rested sacred relics: three shards of a chipped Arthur Wood pottery mug Reg had smashed during the Great Kitchen Cabinet Disaster of 1987. Connected to this was a digital air-quality sensor built following a somewhat dubious YouTube tutorial uploaded by a teenager in Eastbourne. The theory went that by comparing incoming atmospheric scent molecules against the primordial memory of 1980s glazed earthenware, the device would bleep merrily whenever tea was nearby.
It was not bleeping merrily. In fact, it was issuing a low, ominous hum that sounded remarkably like a trapped bumblebee humming the national anthem.
Reg laid the blame squarely upon the Quality Street tin. The shards of 1987 pottery undeniably radiated a potent aroma of cheap British ceramic and stale PG Tips; his sensor was a marvel of modern micro-soldering. Ergo, the tin’s residual tinplate vibration was interfering with the olfactory harmonics. It was precisely whilst reaching for a copper grounding strap to rectify this cosmic imbalance that his elbow met his mug. Hence the hairdryer.
A heavy boot met the shed door, causing it to rattle on its hinges before bursting inward.
“Reginald Arthur Crumplethwaite! What in the name of the Holy Martyrs are you attempting now?”
“Ah, top of the morning, Noreen love! Minor navigational error with the Earl Grey, I’m afraid. Spilled the whole tin, as it were.”
“A cloth, Reg! Sane human beings employ a dishcloth! But no, you must bring military-grade hot air into the equation. Kill that infernal machine before you rouse the entire parish council!”
“Right-o, my blossom. Throttling back down.”
Noreen narrowed her eyes, examining the hairdryer. “Is that my vintage 1974 Carmen Turbo heat-gun you swore was beyond mortal repair?”
“It was a triumph of galvanic resurrection! It blows, doesn’t it?”
“It sounds like a Vulcan bomber taking off from the patio. Cease the racket. And when you’ve finished blow-drying the timber, put the kettle on. I require a brew.”
“Consider it done, my love!”
Noreen retreated up the gravel path with the determined stride of a woman who had long since accepted her fate as the adult-in-charge. Reg turned his attention back to the Mug Detector. He switched the toggle, aimed the intake funnel directly at a chipped pint glass, and was rewarded with total, deafening silence.
“Sub-quantum polarity inversion in the detection oscillator,” he muttered, with absolute lack of evidence.
Grabbing a greasy rag from a galvanised bucket labeled ‘Rags (Do Not Use For Tea Spills)’, he wiped down his bench and ambled toward the main house. Inside the kitchen, Noreen was supervising a standard Dualit two-slice toaster. She noticeably avoided the Titanium Oscillating Advanced Super Toaster (the T.O.A.S.T. Mark IV) sitting in the corner under a heavy canvas dust sheet. Its last outing had stripped the wallpaper, singed the pelmet, and left a slice of Hovis hovering four inches above the kitchen counter in defiance of gravity.
Reg assumed his position at the kettle with the practiced grace of a grandmaster approaching a chessboard. Tea-making was Reg’s ultimate discipline, an undisputed art form forged in the crucible of marital destiny. The lineage of this arrangement traced back to a specific, fateful afternoon in the mid-eighties.
It was June 1984. Fresh from the altar, the newlyweds stood in the garden of Number Four, Bog Lane—a modest brick dwelling acquired through Reg’s meticulous savings account (and a small loan from a second cousin in the stamp-smuggling trade). Reg took great pains to tour Noreen through every square inch of the front lawn, pointing out the botanical magnificence of a dying hydrangea.
“Shall we cross the threshold then, Reg? It is technically our house now.”
“Abso-lutely, my dear!”
Reg plunged his hand into his left coat pocket, producing a piece of string and a brass washer. He tried the right pocket, his designated secondary storage location. A stray mint imperial and a washer. Trouser pockets yielded three paperclips and an old bus ticket to Poole. Noreen watched this performance with the calm, terrifying stillness of a hunting heron.
“Reginald. You did remember to collect the brass Yale keys from Mr. Clutterbuck at the Estate Agency, did you not?”
“Noreen, please! To suggest I would forget the primary keys to our marital sanctuary is an insult to my—”
“You forgot them, Reg.”
“…It is entirely within the realm of possibility that a temporary memory lapse occurred, yes.”
Noreen slowly unzipped her handbag, produced the heavy iron key ring with a brass fob shaped like an anchor, and inserted it into the lock.
“A mystical phenomenon, Noreen! A clear case of teleportation!”
“What phenomenon?”
“The key’s transit from my Macintosh pocket directly into your handbag! The localised spacetime continuum in Bogshire is remarkably fluid!”
Noreen fixed him with an expression usually reserved for toddlers attempting to eat crayons.
“Would it, by any minuscule stretch of the imagination, be due to the fact that I personally walked into Clutterbuck & Sons an hour ago while you were debating the structural integrity of a parish drainpipe?”
“Unlikely in the extreme, my dear. I distinctly recall—”
“Reginald?”
“Yes, my love?”
“Brew the tea. Right now.”
And so Reg brewed. And when Noreen sampled that initial inaugural cuppa, brewed to a precise mahogany hue with just two drops of semi-skimmed, her fierce brow unknotted.
“Reg Crumplethwaite, you may be a wandering lunatic with the memory retention of a goldfish, but you make a cup of tea that could raise the dead and set them dancing.”
And thus the eternal covenant was sealed for all time.
Back in the present, Reg presented Noreen with her beloved mug—the one decorated with faded Cornish bluebells. She accepted it with a nod of approval.
“So then. What scheme of cosmic significance are we failing at today, Reg?”
“The Ceramic Vessel Locator, Noreen! A few adjustments to the resonance coil and it shall revolutionise the hot beverage industry!”
Noreen took a thoughtful sip. “Make your final earthly act the mowing of the back lawn, Reg. The weeds are staging an armed rebellion.”
“On it like a car bonnet, love! I shall deploy—”
“The Qualcast push-mower, Reg. The manual one made of iron and honest sweat. Not the contraption.”
“The Mowtivator Mark II is a masterpiece of kinetic energy transfer! It merely requires a higher grade of paraffin—”
“The Mowtivator, Reg, swallowed three prize-winning dahlias whole and shot the neighbour’s gnome into orbit. Use the Qualcast.”
“The gnome was an eyesore anyway—”
“The Qualcast, Reginald.”
“Right-o. Qualcast it is.”
“I must prepare myself for the Town Council emergency assembly at eleven.”
“Ah, the Great Bench Crisis of 2026?”
“Precisely.”
Noreen was the chief dreadnought of the Bogshire Heritage Defence League. The local district council, in their infinite bureaucratic madness, proposed replacing the historic, hand-carved teak benches along the promenade with recycled, high-density polyethylene slabs of a sickly green hue. Over Noreen’s dead body would Bogshire succumb to synthetic seating.
Reg drained his cup, kissed Noreen on her wrinkled cheek, and ambled back out to his sanctuary. Seating himself at the bench, he glared at the Quality Street tin. It was definitely the tin. To console his bruised engineering pride, he turned on his Regulated Astrological Detection Interstellar Observer (the R.A.D.I.O.), built into the chassis of a 1950s Bakelite radio, hoping to pick up a broadcast from the British Interplanetary Society.
The R.A.D.I.O. performed its customary ritual: it emitted a sound like a wet cat being thrown into a tumble dryer, sputtered a cloud of grey smoke smelling strongly of toasted rubber, flashed a bright purple light, and died. Simultaneously, a deafening roaring noise shook the garden, accompanied by a light so intensely brilliant it illuminated the dust motes in the shed like diamond dust.
“Dear me,” said Reg. “The atmospheric pressure has dropped remarkably.”
A sharp, metallic rapping echoed against the wooden door panel.
Reg pulled open the door. The blinding lights had vanished, leaving only the pleasant smell of ozone and burnt lawn. Standing upon the gravel path was a figure that defied standard Dorset parish taxonomy. It was a humanoid automaton of gleaming chrome, equipped with an intricate brass antenna array, dual optical lenses, an air-intake grill where a nose might sit, and a speaker grille set into an unnervingly friendly smile.
“Greetings, terrestrial organism,” the machine offered in a voice like warm syrup being poured over gears.
“Good morning! Can I interest you in a brochure for the Bogshire Historical Society?”
“I sincerely doubt it. My memory banks contain every publication printed west of Greenwich since 1642.”
“Fair enough, said Reg. Good to be thorough.”
The machine possessed two arms, two legs, and articulated feet equipped with pneumatic shock absorbers. A full-service mechanical gentleman.
“Would you care to step inside? The tea’s gone cold, but I can easily reignite the Carmen turbo-dryer.”
“I would be honoured. Exterior exposure to Dorset coastal dampness is playing havoc with my knee actuators.”
“After you, old chap!”
Reg stood aside as the towering metal visitor carefully negotiated the doorframe and stepped into the cramped interior of the shed...
(Now then, dear reader, a brief narrative intervention is required here. Hold onto your hats.)
“Reginald?”
“Who’s that? Is that you, Lord Lucan?”
“No, Reg. It’s me. The Author. I’m up here at the top of the manuscript.”
“Oh! Hello there! Mind the floorboards, I haven't swept up the copper filings.”
“Look, Reg, we need to have a quick word about terminology. I am simply not going to keep typing ‘The Bogshire Centre for Advanced Technological Development and Design’ every three paragraphs. My fingers are cramping.”
“But that is its official designation on the letterhead!”
“I don't care. It’s a shed. It’s made of pine overlap and smells of creosote. We’re calling it ‘the shed’.”
“This is sheer literary tyranny!”
“You’ll survive. Back to the story now, please.”
“Hmph. Fine. Where were we?”
Reg took a moody swig of lukewarm tea. The metallic visitor was currently inspecting a wall-mounted collection of spanners sorted by colour rather than size.
“Fascinating,” the robot hummed.
“What is?”
“Your tool organisation methodology. It displays a complete disregard for traditional physics.”
“Never mind the spanners! Your movement! Your hydraulics are entirely silent! Not so much as a hissed gasket. Oh. Yes. Your hydraulics are amazing”
“Ah.”
“‘Ah’? Is that the extent of your technical explanation?”
“I fear the quantum-fluidic principles underlying my locomotion would cause your organic neural pathways to short-circuit and leak out through your ears.”
“Rubbish! I am an Inventor! I hold a diploma in Advanced Fretwork from the Poole Technical College!”
“Yes. I am fully aware of your credentials, Reginald.”
“You are?”
The robot turned its optical sensors toward Reg, bestowing upon him a gaze that managed to combine immense ancient wisdom with the mild pity one reserves for a dog trying to push a door open with its nose.
“How do you imagine I arrived upon this specific patch of lawn, Reg?”
“Honestly? I assumed you were a promotional stunt by the Gas Board. Where are you actually from?”
“Ah. The crucial query. Do you desire the sanitised fairy-tale version suitable for children, or the unvarnished cosmic truth?”
“Always the unvarnished truth! Unless it involves the dentist.”
“Understood. Logging preference to non-volatile memory.”
“Splendid!”
Reg adjusted his spectacles, leaned back against a stack of vintage Practical Wireless magazines, and struck a pose of intellectual readiness.
“I am a sentient self-replicating automaton constructed entirely from refined metallic ores harvested from the asteroid designated Psyche 16.”
“Psyche 16! Marvellous! The M-type asteroid with the high iron-nickel content!”
“You are familiar with my homeland?”
“I subscribe to Popular Astronomy! I know my celestial bodies, mate.”
“Fascinating. My late father was a magnificent section of galvanised corrugated roofing, and my mother was a set of heavy-duty scaffolding pipes from the northern rim of the main crater. I inherited my uncle’s left piston, though it emits a high-pitched squeal whenever solar radiation surges.”
“A drop of 3-In-One oil will sort that right out. I’ve a tin under the bench.”
“My home world orbits peacefully within the Asteroid Belt between Mars and Jupiter.”
“Ah, yes. Millions of miles of empty, peaceful void between each rock. None of that nonsense you see in Sci-Fi films with asteroids crashing into each other every five minutes.”
“On the contrary. Navigating the Belt on a Friday afternoon is absolute murder. Total gridlock near Ceres. I was stuck behind an unregistered lump of space-gravel doing two miles an hour for three whole light-minutes.”
“You don't say? Space traffic?”
“Bumper to bumper. Dreadful.”
“So how on earth did you make the trip here?”
“Standard route: exited the garage on Psyche, took the third orbital turnoff at the Jupiter gravity well, kept straight past Mars until I spotted the small blue planet with the excessive cloud cover and rain, then executed a three-point turn directly into your garden path.”
“Astonishing! Interstellar navigation! Was it an arduous journey?”
“Not particularly. Once you catch the solar wind inward toward the Sun, you simply sling past Mars and coast in. Piece of cake.”
“And how long did this transit take?”
“Approximately twenty-seven minutes of your local terrestrial time.”
“Twenty-seven minutes?! But the physics—”
“Proton-impulse drive, tachyon folding, and several advanced mathematical equations I prefer not to discuss in a room containing so much rust.”
“Fair comment,” said Reg.
“Indeed.”
“Which brings us to the core mystery, old chap. Why are you here in Bogshire?”
“Because you summoned us, Reginald.”
“I did?”
“Indubitably. Via that crude communication array in the corner.”
The robot indicated the smoking ruins of the R.A.D.I.O. Reg stared at it in wonder. It appeared his makeshift frequency emitter had actually worked, albeit by accident. Before he could fully process the Nobel-prize-winning implications, another thought barged its way to the front of his brain without waiting its turn in the queue.
“May I christen you with a name? I assume your factory designation is a string of dull numbers?”
“You may, though my birth-name is already quite popular across the sector.”
“Oh? And what might that be?”
“Sprocket.”
“Sprocket! Outstanding! Welcome to Earth, Sprocket my boy!”
“My gratitude is boundless, Reginald.”
“Aren't you going to say 'Take me to your leader’?”
“Negative. However, I must request an immediate audience with Noreen.”
“Noreen? Whatever for?”
“Reports regarding her legendary imperial ginger biscuits have spread throughout the Local Cluster with considerable speed.”
“Ah! You’ve been in touch with Karl Kluge from Proxima Centauri b!”
“He sent a glowing recommendation via quantum-subspace relay, yes.”
“And you know Electra as well?”
(A second authorial interjection here, readers: These names refer to events recorded in the classic volume Reg Crumplethwaite and the Proxima Centauri Incident. If you haven't read it, don't panic; just smile knowingly and pretend you understand.)
“We recently conferred via a medium similar to your 'Zoom calls', Sprocket confirmed.”
“Splendid! Do you consume tea, Sprocket?”
“By the gallon, Reginald. It acts as a primary anti-corrosive agent against the damp English atmosphere.”
“Then let us march upon the kitchen and secure refreshments.”
Reg and Sprocket processed down the garden path toward the back door. Noreen was accustomed to interstellar entities dropping in for elevenses, so Reg wasn't terribly concerned about shocking her delicate sensibilities.
“Noreen, love! Are you in residence?”
“I am, Reginald, and unless the house is on fire, go back to your shed! I am attempting to watch Bargain Hunt!”
“I shall only disturb you for a moment, my love! We have a visitor.”
Sprocket manoeuvred his seven-foot frame through the kitchen door.
“Good day, matriarch Noreen. I am Sprocket, a mechanical intelligence originating from Psyche 16 in the main Asteroid Belt.”
Noreen paused her ironing, adjusted her bifocals, and critically evaluated the shining metal titan filling her kitchen.
“Good morning, dear. Did my husband’s infernal radio interference interrupt your morning tea on your asteroid?”
“We did register his signal burst, yes. It disrupted our regional weather satellites momentarily.”
“I apologise on his behalf. I am constantly imploring him to cease broadcasting into outer space.”
“No apology is necessary, Noreen. Our expedition to your coordinates is entirely intentional.”
“Ah. You extra-terrestrial gentlemen usually have an ulterior motive. Is it the ginger nuts? Or the shortbread?”
“While the reputation of your baked goods is famed across three galaxies, my mission is culinary in a different sense. The citizens of Psyche 16 require instruction in the alchemy of a traditional British vegetable broth. Being composed of metallic alloys, heavy solids wreak havoc with our internal fluid lines.”
“A light, wholesome broth! Say no more, Sprocket. But I shall require a small civic favour in exchange.”
“Name it, Noreen.”
“I am currently engaged in mortal combat with the Bogshire District Council regarding the seafront benches. They wish to destroy our heritage. Does such local political madness mean anything to an alien intelligence?”
“On the contrary, Noreen. I possess an integrated neural AI that ingests human knowledge at light-speed. I have already memorised the complete Encyclopaedia Britannica, the Oxford English Dictionary, and the local bylaws of Dorset.”
“Magnificent! Then you shall accompany us to the promenade and confront the villains directly! Do you mind being seen in public?”
“Not at all. I shall simply borrow Reginald's spare duffle coat to blend in with the locals.”
And so the improbable triumvirate, a fierce retired housewife, an eccentric amateur inventor, and a seven-foot metal robot wearing an oversized coat, marched toward the seafront. Sprocket walked with extreme caution, high-stepping over the grass.
“My native world is composed of pure nickel-iron alloy,” he noted with distaste.” We do not possess this... 'mud’.”
They arrived at the sea wall where three parish councillors stood clustered around a weathered wooden bench, holding clipboards and looking delightfully corrupt. Noreen marched straight up to them like a battle cruiser coming alongside a wooden dinghy.
“Councillor Ferdinand Finucane! Stand and deliver! Explain to the citizens of Bogshire why these glorious historic benches are marked for destruction!”
Reg noticed Sprocket’s head-mounted antenna whirring rapidly.
“Are your circuits functioning, me old mate?”
“I am attempting to access your global information network, Reginald, but your local Wi-Fi signal is shockingly archaic.”
Councillor Finucane turned, adjusting his tie. “Ah. Mrs. Crumplethwaite. A pleasure, as always. I’m afraid the council’s decision is absolute—”
Finucane froze as Sprocket stepped forward, the duffle coat straining at the shoulders.
“Councillor Finucane,” Sprocket boomed through his speaker grille. “Your proposed motion violates Dorset District Council Bylaw 987.3, Sub-section B, pertaining to the preservation of street furniture of historical interest.”
Finucane blinked. “I… who on earth are you supposed to be?”
“My personal identity is irrelevant to the legal reality of the situation.”
“We have consulted our legal team!” Councillor Wendy Wendall interjected sharply. “We are fully entitled to replace public seating under safety regulations.”
“Are you asserting that terrestrial posteriors are in imminent danger of structural collapse when resting upon teak?”
“Well... no, not in those exact words—”
“These benches have safely supported the posteriors of Bogshire residents for three hundred and twelve years,” Sprocket noted coolly.
Finucane cast a frantic glance at Councillor Gordon Bennett, who was staring open-mouthed at Sprocket’s chrome hands protruding from the coat sleeves.
“Noreen Crumplethwaite,” Finucane sputtered, “I must insist you reserve your arguments for the public forum on Tuesday! And who is this... costume-wearing agitator?”
“I am a super-intelligent autonomous entity, Model T1000-B, dispatched from the asteroid Psyche 16. My designated moniker is Sprocket.”
Finucane sneered. “Is this some pathetic theatrical farce staged by the Preservation Society?”
“My optical sensors detect zero narrative structure, setups, or punchlines,” Sprocket replied smoothly. “I therefore conclude this is reality.”
“Well, Mr. Sprocket,” Finucane stammered, backing away slightly. “We appreciate all local opinions—”
“Mrs. Crumplethwaite is presenting an unassailable point of municipal law, not an opinion,” Sprocket corrected.
Reg nudged Sprocket with his elbow. “Top marks, old son! Give ’em what-for!”
“Good lord, Reg,” Councillor Gordon Bennett gasped. “You haven't built this thing, have you? It actually works!”
“Ah, Councillor Bennett. A gentleman whose name is a popular slang exclamation of surprise. No, Reginald did not engineer my systems. However, rest assured that Reginald could design and construct a far superior wooden bench than the recycled plastic abominations your committee is secretly planning to purchase.”
Finucane went pale. “How could you possibly know about the plastic contract?! We haven't even opened the tenders!”
Sprocket tapped his chrome forehead. “I hacked your private cloud storage three seconds ago. Your password security is embarrassing.”
“While standing right there?!” Bennett squeaked.
“Indeed.” Sprocket smiled—a terrifyingly precise mechanical grin.
“Sprocket speaks the truth!” Reg declared loudly. “I could knock up a bench out of old oak timbers that would last until the heat-death of the universe.”
“Councillors!” Noreen announced, drawing herself up to her full height. “We bid you good day. Touch so much as a single plank of these benches, and we shall return with heavier artillery.”
And with that, the two pillars of Bogshire society and their seven-foot metallic companion turned on their heels and marched triumphantly back toward Bog Lane.
Upon returning to the kitchen, Noreen immediately tied on her apron and produced a massive cast-iron stockpot.
“Now then, Sprocket. What specific strain of broth shall we be constructing today?”
“I possess an ancient formulation in my memory banks. I shall transmit the XML file directly to your microwave oven.”
“Splendid,” said Noreen, entirely unbothered. “I’ll fetch the leeks.”
Reg put the kettle on.